Month: November 2017

I almost religiously start and end every day drawing erotic comics or illustrations.

How good am I? ehhhhh, results vary.
Am I having an excellent time? Oh, absolutely.

There is no pressure to try to turn any of this into anything in particular.
I am a lover of comics and cartoons, and my favorite part of adulthood is being grown enough to sit in my damn apartment that I am paying rent for and drawing some erotic shit.

No matter how difficult the day might attempt to be, I can look life in the face, smile at it and let it know that at about 9:00pm, I will be continuing a series of drawings inspired by fine ass black men and bazooka joe bubble gum cartoons and there’s nothing you can do about that.

Starting here also makes the day more tolerable. It’s an inexpensive habit compared to, say, crack cocaine. I don’t start the day with a drink, I don’t start with a cigarette, I get a cup of coffee, I sit my ass down and I draw some illustrations.

It keeps me sane.
It also keeps me from fucking with the wrong dudes. Ain’t no man prettier than anything I can learn to draw, and with enough practice, I can make these men do damn near whatever I want, and hint: nobody is safe.

Cute guy from astrology class inspired a few drawings.
So did the guy who sat in front of me for a few English classes. So handsome, so brown, perfectly black nose, cute butt. I stare when he tells me about a new tattoo he got, flexing his printed bicep, showing me a new piece on his brown abs.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. I like this. Keep it up.

I will go back to my apartment. Light a candle I paid too much for, but still felt necessary. Sharpen my pencil (not a euphemism, I will literally sharpen a pencil. I will not masturbate). I will relive him however I want. Always erotic, never explicit.

I have exactly what I want in this one wild life.
I don’t actually need him. I don’t want to hear him talk about how he’s finishing his tattoos with with his student loans. I don’t want to watch him chew with his mouth open over a fancy dinner. I’ll take my moment. That’s all I need; one moment.

NOTE FROM ME: I was raised right, so I like to warn you if the content in the next post might be a little on the mature end for your eyes. In this case it is. Now sex is beautiful and pain is real, and you can do what you want with your one wild life, but if you read it, you’re gonna come across a little bit of both. If I’m doing my job right, you’re gonna be a little better for it.

Either way, enjoy. This post is mature. Be mature.

His name is Ellison, but his sisters call him Ellis and his friends call him El, or just “L” if they’re hitting him up over text or he’s using one of those dating apps that help men needing a little bit of fun in their lives.

Age: The broker part of his 20’s

Weight: Height and Weight proportional (HWP) but that’s being modest, really, the actual answers are tall as hell and big all around the shoulders.

Hobbies: 420 (you can hit him up if you’re trying to match). Video games, just chillin’, laying low

What’s he looking for?: Friends, maybe a smoke bud, wouldn’t mind if things moved into more, but he’s good either way.

Ellis was looking for the pretty ones. He liked the pretty ones and the prettier the better. He didn’t mind the ones who walked hard or talked loud. He didn’t mind the ones who took a long time in the bathroom mirror the next morning on their way out. He liked the ones who took care of their hands and toes, soft-skinned and hairless. L ain’t mind none of that.

His friends, ashy men, who liked women but didn’t love them right, knew L occasionally didn’t mind what they referred to between themselves as sissy niggas, and L liked a “sissy nigga” just as much as he liked a bad woman.

L didn’t care what hung between their legs – A little something extra didn’t matter. A little less was perfectly fine, and nothing at all was cool too. L didn’t worry about that none. He just liked em’ soft and pretty.

He liked thick hips. He liked long hair, he liked wet and full pouting lips either the kind that rested under a nose, or between a set of meaty thighs. L liked what he liked and he didn’t care who liked it. At any time, he could be staring at a bouncing, backside in a filled out sundress, or spying on the switch of a man that liked the way L watched.

And nobody asked L about a damn thing.
Because it wasn’t none of their business.

And maybe L’s friends would whisper to one another, but nothing out loud and never anything that would change him for the better.

And so L went about his business, conducting it with damn near everyone and anyone he pleased, and my God did he please.

One time it was a thick yellow women in his accounting class.
Another time with a brown boy, real wide in the back with glitter on his face.
Another time with it was two girls, new to college, hardly old enough to buy a pack of cigarettes, and wanting to try something new, together and with him, and long story short, they were all happy.

He ran through the boy working drive thru,
and slid into a church girl with neon curl rods in her hair, and questions in her head about who God really is after she and L smoked together.

L never lacked company, and that was on the count of his “gift to the masses”. While his friends lied about how perfectly they could fill out their baggy sweatpants, L knew what he worked with; for L and his lovers, life and death existed in the power of his tongue.

Night after night, sometimes five and six nights a week (and at one point during the summer, damn near every night for almost a month) a willing body found itself pressed face-first deep into a mattress, a counter top, couch cushions, plush carpet, bathroom tiles, or cold garage cement. An ass would be spread open and lifted as close to heaven as it could be while still doing earthly good.

L explored deep and wide as he could, knowing parts and places that made men moan. His wild tongue got friendly in places that made women wet. L would do it like it was his last supper before crucifixion, and his first meal after a long fast.

“L!” every weakened and trembling voice would call out, “Ohhhh L!”

And like picking a lock using only the top of his tongue, L knew just how to unlock delight, pleasure and dare I say freedom, on just about everybody’s body.

L wasn’t a novice to a good stroke either. With his hands on the smallest part of his partners waist, he’d push into them slow and deep as he wanted. Each partner making them self the sacrifice after a perfect anilingus performance from his miraculous and perhaps healing tongue.

Women and men talked about the work of his tongue like it was legendary.

Beauty supply stores and salons were good for hosting a few of his past lovers long enough to swap stories, compare details, and entice curious eavesdroppers and envious busybodies.

Men who didn’t like men knew their women liked L, and even in the unlikely event L’s friends brought their girlfriends to smoke sessions, or to hang out, they watched as their women chatted up, flirted up, and talked up L in hopes to be eaten up.

Everyone wanted what L had to give, and if they didn’t want it, they wanted someone who did.

Eventually, what L wanted didn’t matter much.

When the tall tale got large enough, enough tail shimmied out of denim jeans, sometimes before L could close the door behind him, full brown bottoms displayed and presented before him even before a ‘how are you?’

They knew what they wanted before they showed up,

He knew what it was when they walked in.

Discussion wasn’t necessary.

And objection would be awkward.

So just like that, L went to work doing what he was perhaps created to do – who are we to judge anyone’s ministry?

On his knees and in between unfamiliar legs once again; Their pleasure became his duty. Their orgasm became his mission. Their “legend” became his damnation.

Sometimes while he ate and sucked the nectar out of them, his wandering hand toyed with himself, hoping to rush the moment to completion so that he could send them home and sit with himself and roll a blunt he wouldn’t have to share.

With enough effort and fiddling around in the right spots, eventually,

They’d finish.

He’d finish.

Sometimes afterwards, there was small talk.

and sometimes he would ask a subtle and unconcerned, “so what you doing tomorrow?”

And without listening to the answer, he would tie his hair down for the night, and move to the bathroom to brush their taste out of his mouth.

Sometimes him and his piece for the night didn’t look at each other much after everything was done. They checked their phones and maybe wished they were anywhere but that room. Dismissed by L’s fake yawn, the lovers would leave until they wanted his magic all over again.

And L would have em’ over, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted the company.
Because L wasn’t sure what he wanted.
Someone that held or someone he could hold?

Honestly, Dark boy would prolly love anyone who loved him back right. In every good and bad way possible, he had no preference.

He liked pretty boys who didn’t really talk about nothing.

He liked boys who were a little rough around their edges and mama’s ain’t know who they were really kissing when they stayed out so long.

He liked boys who ain’t liked boys before.

He liked boys who ain’t liked themselves before.

Dark boy liked a little bit of everybody, and a little bit of everybody liked or made some type of love to Dark Boy, because while Dark Boy might have been a whole lotta problems, he was beautiful in the way young boys like; Big curious eyes, bushy-browed, a face something like your daddy might have had back in the day, skin glowing a warm yellow-brown, high yellow like we call em’ in the south, but in the city, the call him lightskinned, and all the young boys lightskinned.

But wait. If he’s yellow, why do they call him Dark Boy?
You might be asking, to which I’d say you’d have to look a little deeper.

Dark boy was dark somewhere else, like maybe in his soul instead of his skin, and men didn’t mind at first. They even called it mysterious, until they eventually called him crazy, and then never called him at all, leaving Dark Boy even more mopey, more cynical, and somehow, even more disappointed than before. Dark Boy got in the habit of never telling his friends how long he was seeing so-and-so, but instead telling them how long until so-and-so stops seeing him.

Dark Boy wore his disappointment something like an itchy pair of drawers he just wouldn’t change, doing things with boys hoping they’d stay. Wondering where the hell they went when they left, and how long they’d be gone. He’d wonder who those men loved before they found him, and most disturbingly, he’d fantasize about they way these men would eventually leave him too.

Don’t get me wrong, Dark Boy did whatever the hell he could to keep men around – Working two jobs and paying a broke nigga’s phone bill. Cooking and feeding men who waited for their job interview to call back, letting em’ taste all his secret places, even on the first night.

One man spent four nights in a row calling Dark Boy all the things Dark Boy wanted to hear. He whispered all of the hot and right things to him. Pushed himself deep into Dark Boy night after night right in front of the only window in the apartment; let most of 23rd street watch Dark Boy flail in bursts of pain and sometimes even pleasure over the lively street.

On the fifth night this lover asked Dark Boy if he could invite a friend in on their arrangement and without giving a firm yes or no, but giving a relentless willingness to please, Dark Boy found himself between two men who he figured probably loved each other more than either would ever love him.

Nobody called on the sixth night,

and by the seventh, the lover and his friend were all just an embarrassing memory Dark Boy wouldn’t mention again.

Instead, Dark Boy would carry the moment in his back pocket, let the disappointment weigh on his soul like the disappointments always did.

He’d show up on yet another date, drink with another man who would find his misery mysterious and call him all the things he wanted to hear; whisper all the hot and right things to him.

“I got a new car…” he mentioned after we had sex, which was unnecessary information, since we already had sex.

That’s information you share with someone to convince them to have sex with you.

And we already had sex.
So now you’re just bragging.
And nobody likes a bragger.
Frankly, I hardly like a you.

and yet, here you are,
but now I’ve come

To my senses.

Please leave.

I do not actually care about how your mother is doing. You will not remember which classes i’m taking this semester. Our astrological signs will tell you nothing about us that I cannot tell you myself.

And while I don’t see our future,
I see mine, and I think that’s indication enough that whatever this is has finished,

and now you can go wherever it is you come from and come with anyone else who is impressed with your new car, because I am not.

Any part of my body capable of receiving pleasure ain’t that deep or far or hidden away in my body.

A determined tongue or a curious finger will get the job done perfectly. Take my word, i’m learning me quite well.

What does all of that mean?

That means after a few inches in, we’re doing something other than having sex. We have moved beyond the place of pleasure and are disqualified from calling what we’re doing “making love”

After a certain point, we ain’t doing this just because it feels good.
You’ve got a vendetta. You’ve got something to prove.

You’re mad at someone, or something and you think you’re about to take it out here, and on me.

You will do no such thing.

You’re upset that your pappy went to the grocery store and ain’t ever come back.
And that’s a shame,
But my openings are not the place where you will solve your problems.

I know you hated that time you caught your mother and your pastor doing things both of em’ told you not to do.
May your soul find itself a healing,
but you won’t be causing me that kind of pain.

I don’t know who told you the answers to your problems were buried damn near 10 inches into my asshole or somewhere in my esophagus, but that is not true.

The answer is somewhere in you.
And you ain’t even tried looking for it.
Not a lick of experience looking within your damn self,

and you think you’re about to find something here?
In me?

No sir.

And not to yuck any of your yum. There ain’t nothing wrong with a little soul-searching with willing vessel. I use to like it myself from time-to-time.

There’s someone who is gonna let you look for whatever you want
however you need
and wherever you’d like.

But that person isn’t me.

Find someone who wants to hurt like you you’ve been hurt.

You can find someone who will call all your pain their pleasure and ache in places you ain’t ready to hurt in, yet.

Make sense of yourself all up inside someone else.
Make em’ walk crooked and call it whatever you’d like but don’t call it love.

Love don’t do that.

And right now you’re disrespecting the love I like to make.

The Young Plum

DISCLAIMER:
These are the very grown adventures of the Young Plum. I feel like this is a great place to remind you that this site might not be "safe for work"...then again, I have NO idea what you do for a living, so it's your call.

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